The Devil's Joke
by Lady of Pride
Summary: Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they've ever craved before.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Devil's Joke

Rating: Nc-17 (overall)

Characters: Canada, America, England, France, Germany, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.

Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)

**Warnings:** This story follows both the regular, light-hearted _hetalia!universe_ as well as the dark _alternate universe_ it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, normal!sex, and a bit of language... It's a psychological twist, darlings. My sincerest apologies...

Disclaimer: The rightful owner would _never_, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...

_Summary:__ Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they've ever craved before._

~*~_**The Other**__~*~_

Alone at last, he collapses to his knees on the hardwood floor, exhausted, faint, already stretched beyond his capabilities. The floor whines beneath his weight, a low creak in the otherwise silent room, before his focus narrows to the pounding of his heart and the sound of the wind whistling through the eaves.

Eyes stinging, mouth dry, the air rushes from his lungs in a strangled sob. The first of many. This is his only chance to vent.

God is watching, but He mustn't care.

No one cares...

He curls his arms around his chest as he chokes on the next gulp of air, tears warm where they trickle down his face. He can't count the number of times he's come up here to hide. Too many, he thinks. Too many to count. Too many to continue going on like this...

He's tired.

He's just so goddamn _tired_...

"_I know."_

The voice startles him, but he doesn't flinch. He's too sore to move.

Lifting his head, vision blurry through the tears, he discerns the faint silhouette of a man sitting on his old oak trunk, back to the attic window, where the sunlight filters in around his head. It's a mockery of a halo.

Be that as it may, this is as close to angel as he's ever been.

"W-why are you here?"

"_For you, of course,"_ the shade coos softly, offering his hand in a gesture of goodwill. _"Tell me that you want this to end, and I'll do it. Just for you."_

"That's not how you operate..."

"_For you,"_ he muses, _"I'll try. No more worries, no more pain—you'll go on living as though you've never known them at all."_

Even if he's telling the truth, there's no erasing what's been done to him...

There's just no way.

Even so...

"_When was the last time you smiled, Matthew?"_

...he takes his hand.

~*~_**Matthew Williams**__~*~_

"Stop that, please."

Alfred glances at him out of the corner of his eye and pauses, mid-munch, before stuffing the rest of the French fry into his mouth. The chewing commences, lips firmly sealed, and he grins arrogantly as though he hadn't been stirring up any trouble at all.

Matthew has a feeling he's only doing this to irritate him.

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Alfred rolls the top of the MacDonald's bag shut and pushes it over to the side, away from his paperwork. Matthew's been _trying _to pay attention to France's speech, but it's an incredible feat when the seating plan put them together, and the smell of the food is actually starting to work on his appetite, _and _he's jet-lagged, so, _really_...

How is he supposed to focus?

"I'm still hungry."

"Our lunch break is in half an hour."

"What? I'm a growing country."

Matthew hasn't forgotten 'ManifestDestiny' _just _yet, so he excuses his behaviour as a pre-emptive measure on his nation's behalf and takes the liberty of punching Alfred in the shoulder.

Not hard enough to hurt, of course.

"...You hit like a little girl."

"You're getting fat, Alfred."

"Okay, _ouch_. You don't see me making fun of your silly, little, pseudo-French, do you?"

Even though they're both smiling, Matthew's prepared to smack him again—but then England throws him a certain_ 'look'_ from where he sits across the table and it gives Matthew reason to pause as he weighs the repercussions of being chastised by his former guardian in public. Considering the sad amount of attention he's given most of the time, he really doesn't want to tarnish the vague image the world already has of him.

(Even if it'll give his brother a good laugh...)

Taking note of England's attention, Alfred hums pleasantly in the back of his throat as he settles comfortably into his seat. Satisfied to having won their little banter, Alfred nudges his ankle gently under the table and starts twirling his pencil between his fingers. _Foosh-foosh-foosh_. Right next to his ear.

_Foosh-foosh-foosh..._

_Foosh-foosh-foosh..._

"I swear to God, Alfred—"

"—_Merci_," Francis finishes at long last with a little wave of his hand and a courteous bow, ignoring the gentle applause of his peers in favour of glancing briefly at North Italy where the nation is sleeping soundly to his left. A quick nudge from Ludwig startles him from his siesta—an odd sight, in and of itself, considering Feliciano usually avoids napping out in public...

Somehow, Francis' apparent amusement manages to smooth over the unintended insult.

Matthew would've felt guilty himself for losing attention halfway through the speech, but the _foosh-foosh-foosh_ is really starting to get to him and he can't focus on much of anything other than the smug look on his brother's face.

He wants to put an end to that sound. _Badly_. So he reaches over—

—and steals Alfred's lunch.

"Wait—what?"

Leaning back in his chair, holding the bag as far from his brother as he possibly can, Matthew listens idly to Ludwig as the German announces their break. Alfred will get his lunch back, _eventually_, but not, perhaps, before Matthew's had a chance to wolf down the remainder of his fries.

"Mattie—_Mattie_, come on... You can't do this to me."

"It's a heart attack in disguise. You'll thank me in future."

Almost completely sprawled across Matthew's lap, fingers brushing the side of the bag, Alfred comes pretty close to knocking them both over when the tries to lunge for the meal in question. "But don't you love me, babe?"

Matthew snorts derisively—but loses his grip when Alfred inadvertently elbows him in the stomach, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Matthew lets him have the bag but gets one last shot in by shoving Alfred off his lap and onto the floor.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Alfred jumps back to his feet and dusts off his pants before fishing a fry out of the bag. Waving it triumphantly in Matthew's face, he pops it into his mouth with a decisive smirk, and settles back into his chair.

He chews loudly before swallowing.

"...Victory's never tasted this sweet."

Matthew snorts again but doesn't turn down the fry offered him. He knows how to pick his battles. "Does this mean you're finally going to stop gloating about the American Revolution?"

"Pft. _Fat_ _chance_. You gonna kick Quebec out any time soon or would you rather we not talk about it?"

"That doesn't even compare."

"Cry me a river, Mattie," he quips. "But speaking of _victories_...you gonna help me _celebrate_?" He finishes the offer with a suggestive brow-wiggle, but keeps his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the herd of nations migrating to the door. "You've left me in something of a dry spell since last week, babe."

"Don't be lecherous," Matthew scolds, trying—and failing—to take another swing at his brother.

Thankfully, the great U.S. of A. doesn't see Francis looming behind him.

"I'll give up on the lechery when you finally see reason, Matt. Just embrace you're inner cowgirl and let the good times roll, you know? It isn't called the '_wild' _west for nothing."

Oh, he _knows_ alright...

And so does Francis, which is what earns his brother a well-timed slap to the back of the head.

"_Ow_."

"_Salaud_..."

"_Hey_—no outside interference, frenchie! This business is strictly between the Americas."

"_Mon petite_ deserves so much better," Francis groans. "Such beauty is wasted on the _beast_."

"You've obviously never seen Disney, have you?"

Francis smacks him again and looks as though he's winding up for a good, long rant, but the sight of Feliciano making a beeline for the door distracts him the second he opens his mouth. The frustration visibly eases from his face, promptly replaced by something Matthew can only describe as a cross between mischief and prurience, before darting off after his next victim.

Matthew can't help but sigh...If Feliciano's too frazzled to brush off Francis' advances today, he knows Ludwig won't hesitate to break the Frenchman's neck.

The cleanup's going to be messy.

"And here I thought _I_ had a short attention span," Alfred chuckles. Tossing the bag of MacDonald's onto the table, he slouches in his chair and tries to bat his eyelashes as innocently as a superpower can for a nation of his disposition. "Now, what were we talking about...?"

"Lunch." Rising from his seat, he gives Alfred a look that says _'And you're not coming'_. "Give me a minute to go grab something."

"But..."

He takes a moment to swat away the hand that tugs the corner of his suit jacket, not the least bit fooled by Alfred's failed attempt at puppy-dog eyes. "Try not to destroy anything while I'm gone, 'kay?"

"Really?" Alfred sounds incredulous. Then he smiles and lowers his voice to a whisper. "_Come on_, Mattie... Twenty minutes. I know where we could go..."

Matthew has half a mind to hit him,_ again_, but he supposes this time he'll leave a bruise, and there's only so far they can play-fight before Arthur grabs one of them by the ear.

"If you doodle on my notes while I'm gone, I'll remove _MacDonald's_ from Canada."

Mouth a-gap, eyes wide, Alfred looks as though he just killed his dog. "B-but think of the children!"

"I _am_."

"Yeah, well...clearly you're not lovin' it enough."

Matthew can't help but cringe. "You know, I really wish you weren't so corny."

"I wish you weren't so cold," Alfred mutters. The double entendre isn't lost on Matt, but his brother smiles kindly enough that he decides to pull the reins in on his tongue for once. "Oh well...you're coming back with me to New York, right? Cause Paris is nice and all, but Francis is here and I'm pretty sure he's on to us."

'_If only you knew the half of it,'_ he thinks. Francis had a nose for love. Hell, the man could smell romance from a mile away.

Returning Alfred's smile with an affirmative wink, Matthew wanders through the throng of nations chatting idly by the door and navigates his way to the stairs at the end of the hall. France and Italy are nowhere in sight, but then, neither is Germany...

He can't help but admit that he's beginning to wonder what's going on between them. Ludwig's been as stoic as ever, but Gilbert is practically buzzing with excitement, and Romano is redder than usual livid self. The cherry on top, however, would definitely have to be Feliciano's sudden change in behaviour. If he isn't worrying himself to the point of exhaustion, Matthew doesn't know what to call his sudden bursts of lethargy these days...

It probably doesn't help that Francis has been on his tail since February, but he digresses.

Humming thoughtfully to himself, he decides it really isn't any of his business, and that whatever happens will happen despite what he says or does. Although...it wouldn't hurt to have a chat with Francis. His _papa_ has the nasty habit of getting carried away with himself, after all.

One floor down, second door at the end of the hall, Matthew's already reaching for the doorknob to his office before he realizes he's finally made it there. He's tired, and a little jet lagged, and Alfred's been about as bubbly as usual, so he chalks up his sudden daze as exhaustion and gives his head a small shake.

'_Wake up, already."_

Pushing his door open with his shoulder, it isn't until he's hit the light switch that he realizes there's something wrong with this scene.

He doesn't remember it ever being quite this..._bright_.

Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, he spots the offender leaning up against the wall beside his desk—it's a full length mirror with a metal frame, fashioned into several, delicate braids of poison ivory and something he can only describe as a mask plastered up above the centre.

...Good grief, he can't even _being_ to fathom what it's doing here.

"_Alfred_..." he mutters, because he has an ever-growing assortment of odd gifts his brother's sent to him over the years, everything from an orange mixer to some kind of vintage tricycle he found god-knows-where back in 1973. Though, if he had to be honest, the mirror's really a little too morbid for Alfred's tastes. There's nothing fun about. Nothing _cheery_.

Curious to see whether this really is a gift or if it was sent to him by accident, he closes the door with a gentle kick and talks a tentative step forward, reaching out to brush one of the metallic leaves before glancing at his reflection.

It isn't his reflection.

Startled, he almost trips over his feet as he stumbles back into the office's sole bookcase. In truth, the reflection _is_ him, but the Matthew Williams on the other side of the looking glass is _hardly_ up to par as far as his health is concerned. _This_ Matthew Williams is sickeningly pale. There are bruises on his throat where he's been strangled and he's thinner than anything Matthew could've ever imagined himself being. Starved, maybe, or merely worn down by misery, though the dark circles around his eyes are beginning to distract Matthew from everything else...

His violet eyes are closed.

Matthew can't help but wonder if he's..._dead_.

"_If you could save someone from a fate such as this, would you do it?"_

His reflection's lips aren't moving and the voice doesn't seem like anything he imagines he'd sound like, but he's certain that it's coming from the mirror.

Hesitantly, he replies, "...Yes."

"_In this moment, if the power was yours, and yours alone, would you save a soul such as this?"_

Somehow, it doesn't sound so much like a question as it does a suggestion, as though this uninvited guest has already figured out what he'd like to say. In truth, he wants to say _'yes'_, but every part of him that is Matthew and Canada is telling him to say _'no'_. That it's wrong;. Oh, so terribly _wrong_...

He feels as though there's something pressing _in_ against his chest, like a knife jabbed between his ribs.

"I..."

'_I would,'_ he thinks, but he's so afraid.

_Horrified_.

...The hell _is_ this?

But he can't say '_no'_...he's _never_ said '_no'_. Not to Alfred, not to Arthur, and certainly not to someone that looks as desolate as...well, _him_.

Taking a tentative step forward, he brushes the glass with his fingertips. It's cold to the touch.

His reflection doesn't stir from its upright repose. Deathly quiet.

The deceased on display.

It stirs inside him something he doesn't want to identity. He's connected with this pitiful creature somehow and he feels as though if he doesn't speak now he'll regret it for the rest of his life.

...

"Yes."

His answer echoes in the empty office. It thunders in his ears, and in his heart, and suddenly he's all too aware of what he's done.

But by then the mirror is crashing down upon him.

And then he sees nothing at all.

~*~?~*~

Two souls in reverse, stretched first from the inside-out before folded in again, hand to hand, eye to eye, as malleable as molten iron. He twisted them in turn through the looking glass, one for the other, before sealing the gap between them, and then he clapped his hands, and smiled, and sat back to admire his work...

Somewhere, he knows, the devil's laughing.

And he's laughing with him...

**A/N:** And so there you have it...chapter one.

;)

Now, since I've read this over a number of times and am somehow always able to find grammar mistakes, please don't hesitate to correct me on anything. My ego doesn't bruise easily.

Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Devil's Joke – chapter 2

Rating: Nc-17 (overall)

Characters: Canada, America, England, France, Germany, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.

Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)

**Warnings:** This story follows both the regular, light-hearted _hetalia!universe_ as well as the dark _alternate universe_ it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, regular sex, and a bit of language... It's a psychological twist, darlings. My sincerest apologies.

Disclaimer: The rightful owner would _never_, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...

_Summary:__ Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they've ever craved before._

_**~*~Alfred F. Jones~*~**_

He can count on one hand the number of times his brother's been _late _for any of their little international jamborees. The first incident was the day of his induction into the G8, and even today Alfred can recall the sight of his brother stumbling through the door, flustered, and anxious—and not just a _little_ too excited at having finally been recognized by their zany community. Granted, he had the inane ability of turning completely invisible when he was as nervous as all hell (whether he really wanted to or not, he still isn't sure) but he supposes it helped Matthew on some level considering how often an irate nation would confuse him for the infamous (though no less heroic)_'_America'.

The second incident involved the misfortune of getting trapped in the elevator, but no one could really hold that against him. Nation or not, Matthew had no more power over the inanimate than anyone else in their little brotherhood.

Glancing at his watch, he counts twenty-five minutes back to when Mattie left the room, and realizes, dimly, that he's been bouncing his knee under the table since he first noticed his brother's return was long overdue.

Pigs must've been flying somewhere in the world...

Like London, maybe.

Normally, he wouldn't worry—Mattie was the world's second largest country, after all, and he really didn't have any half-decent enemies, but there still remained the little detail of their likeliness in appearance and Alfred couldn't, in good conscience, deny the responsibility he had over flack his brother got concerning American business.

Chocking his nausea up as hunger, he tells himself he isn't freaking out when he wanders out of the meeting hall and down to the offices. Heck, the world should've been _happy_ he was capable of showing a little concern. It's not as though he was in the habit of shooting first and asked questions later anymore.

Heh...

He supposes nobody really knew him as well as Mattie did.

"_America_!"

Five steps short of Matthew's door, he actually _starts_ at the sound of his name.

Christ...he's really letting this thing get to him.

Deciding to humour the Italian, he turns to face Feliciano as the young man closes the distance between them briskly, glancing over his shoulder once to check if he's being followed. Normally, Alfred would laugh (Feli was easy to scare, after all), but he'd be lying if he said the Italian hadn't been looking a little worse for wear lately. Alfred isn't exactly _blind_ to the fact that Francis has been hounding him none stop for the last little while, to the point that it had actually distracted France from trying to trick Arthur into bed.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket, he tries to hide his jitters behind an easy smile as he rocks back onto his heels. _Pft_. He's not worried. Mattie's going nowhere, and Alfred's got all the time in the world to stand around and chat... "Where's Germany?"

"Arguing with _fratello_," he murmurs, which really isn't such as surprise. Romano will do just about anything to get into a fight with the German. "Have you seen _Francesco_?"

"Uh, no. I thought—"

"Then _hide_ _me_," Feli whimpers. "_Per favore_! He is _il diavolo_..."

"...The devil?"

"_Sì_."

Alfred would really like to know _why_ (after all, it's not as though Francis is really particular about who he wants to bed, _granted_ they fulfill his idea of 'beautiful'), but he decides Feliciano looks pathetic enough that the little fellow_ is_, in all actuality, at his wits end, and, really, Alfred needs all the brownie points his country can get. It'll be his random act of kindness for the day. Mattie would be so proud.

"Okay, I guess...Help me find my brother and I'll make sure he doesn't get his hands on you."

"_Grazie_," he says, and tops it off with a little bow of his head. Part of Feli's charm has always been his manners. "His office is...?"

"Haven't checked it yet."

Feli nods in understanding and glances at the crack of light under the door before giving it a solid knock. He waits a moment before knocking again, but even that isn't enough to elicit a response.

"..._Matteo_, may we come in?"

Still nothing.

'_Screw it,'_ Alfred thinks as he reaches for the knob. Shoving the door open, he automatically takes a step into the office before he realizes there's glass scattered all over the floor.

And his beloved brother, sprawled in the midst of it.

Bleeding.

_**~*~Matthew Williams~*~**_

The last time he felt this bad, he'd gotten a concussion from Russia in the hockey rink. Granted, he'd broken the man's nose, but there was a considerable difference between mistakenly whacking someone in the face and deciding to avenge oneself by rendering your opponent unconscious.

Really, though, Matthew doesn't want to think about it. His brain's so rattled, he can't tell if he's genuinely thirsty, or dizzy, or hungry, or nauseated, or just _ow-ow-__**ow**_, _why-won't-it-stop-__**hurting**_...

For a moment, he's too afraid to move. He's alone, after all, and even if nations can recover from just about anything, head trauma is still a miserable thing to deal with, something he'd rather not do _again_ since the last time he fell on the ice without his helmet. The pain is unbearable, if nothing else at all, and he prays silently to every soul in heaven that someone would just _find_ _him_ already and put him out of his goddamn misery.

Eventually, though, his sanity overrules the pain and he tells himself everything's going to be okay. It's cold and it's quiet and it's a little too bright for his poorly, abused senses, but at least he's still alive, so he really can't complain.

Taking a moment to collect himself, he waits until the room stops spinning before he tries to sit up. He's in his _attic_ of all places and the sun's peaking at him through the round, little window to his right. It's nothing new or horrendous, but he hasn't got the slightest idea how he got there, and, _seriously_, wasn't he trying to steal Alfred's lunch five minutes ago...?

Why wasn't he in Paris?

'_Details,'_ he wonders sullenly. Whatever happened, he'll survive. He just wishes he knew what hit him...

Turning his had slowly (he feels as though he's going to vomit up his spleen at any given moment now), he takes inventory of the situation. Though his attic is emptier than he remembers—and he _really_ can't recall ever having put friggen bolt on the trap door—he is, indeed, at his house in Ottawa. Thankfully, though, there's evidently no one here trying to kill him, and if he gives himself another minute or so, he'll be well enough to stumble downstairs to a phone.

Problem solved.

Simply sitting there on the floor, he touches his head gingerly to see what the damage is. He's not bleeding (thank god), but there's a lump behind his right ear, which suggests he probably fractured his skull. There's really no chance of dying unless his people were at the brink of extinction, but the pain is real enough and he really wishes it would _stop_ already...

As soon as he's sure he won't heave, he struggles onto his hands and knees and crawls over to the trap door. Tugging the bolt open, he pulls on the latch until both the door and the ladder collapse to the second floor. And then, after saying a small prayer, he beings the tedious job of climbing _down_...

_Mon Dieu_, why couldn't he have woken up in the living room?

When he's got both his feet planted firmly on the ground, leaning momentarily against the wall to steady himself, his stomach does a back flip before he can muster the strength to stumble forward. The bathroom's on his right and he decides, at the last minute, to take a quick detour before he hurls his breakfast up all over the floor.

Thankfully, though, his stomach is able to behave itself as he collides with the bathroom sink. He knocks his toothbrush onto the floor in the process, but that's the extent of the damage done. Pretty good for someone who's seeing double, he thinks.

Bracing himself against the counter, he takes this opportunity to glance at his reflection in the mirror—he's pale and he's got racoon eyes, but giving it a second the bruises instantly begin to fade. His people are well enough at the moment that he won't be suffering for much longer, and, besides, he's been through worse. World War II really torn him a new one, after all. There's no forgetting the time he lost his right leg in an explosion.

He shivers at the thought.

He isn't entirely sure how long he stays there, simply hoping for the best, but when he glances at his reflection again there's more colour to his face and his eyes really don't look so bad anymore.

Satisfied with his current condition, he takes his time wandering out of the bathroom and down the hall. He contemplates waiting out the rest of his recovery in the bedroom, but then he hears the sound of a key turning the lock to his front door and his curiosity gets the better of him as he shuffles to the end of the hall.

Glancing down the stairs, he watches as the door swings open with a hefty shove.

He's honestly surprised to see his brother standing there in the entrance.

"...Alfred?"

"Wow..." his brother murmurs, looking mildly shocked. No surprise there, of course. Matthew doesn't get his head bashed in often. "...you're certainly looking better."

"Ha _ha_," he laughs, and he doesn't care if it sounds a little dry. Alfred always had an odd sense of humour. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you lost my spare key in the North Saskatchewan."

"The river?" his brother asks incredulously, giving him quite the look. "Uh, _no_...You feeling alright, babe?"

Not really, but he supposes he's lucky Alfred's here. He honestly doesn't want to be alone right now.

"Nevermind... I've got a concussion. Help me down, please."

Alfred raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his request, but eventually relents after slamming the front door shut. He doesn't bother taking off his shoes as he marches up the stairs.

Matthew waits until his brother is at the top before grabbing the railing with his right hand, letting Alfred pull his other arm over his shoulder before working their way down to the entrance. Alfred helps him hobble into the kitchen from there before letting go—sneaking in a uncharacteristic kiss on his left temple before depositing him at the table.

"Seriously, though, you look like you've gained a little weight, Mattie. What exactly have you been up to lately, babe?"

Matthew he really doesn't enjoy the jab at his weight—he's _healthy_, after all—but he's too sore to honestly care. He merely accepts the glass of water proffered to him as Alfred takes a seat next to him, nodding quietly in thanks before downing it all.

He knows he'll be as right as rain tomorrow, at the very latest.

"Truthfully, I have no idea. The last thing I remember, we were in Paris."

Alfred gives him a low whistle. "You're kidding me, right? _Paris_? Christ, Mattie...that was ages ago."

_Ages_ ago...?

"What do you mean?" he mutters. "I bumped my head. I didn't jump into the future..."

"It's twenty-eleven Mattie. You with me so far?"

"Then...when was Paris?"

"Heck if I can remember...Fifty years ago, maybe? I don't think you've been over to see him in forever. I mean, the moment you're out on the open sea, Artie gets it in his head that he can sail over here..." Alfred pauses for a moment, eyes narrowing at his twin. "He hasn't tried to contact you lately, has he? Trading notes with old Art' is breaking one of the cardinal rules, Mattie..."

"What do mean?"

"Not going to deny it, babe?"

"Why the hell would I be _'trading notes'_ with Arthur? The last time I saw him was in Paris. Hell—the last _person_ I remember talking to is you_._"

Alfred gives him a thoughtful look. After a beat, he tilts his head one side and shrugs. "Amnesia, huh? _Weird_...But you remember that we tango, right?"

It's Matthew's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Tango?"

"You know...'_Have sex_'. This isn't the fifth grade, Mattie."

"Well, yeah. Occasionally. But I don't see how that has anything to do with this turn of events."

Alfred outright _laughs_ at him, and Matthew would be lying if he said it wasn't starting to creep him out. More so when Alfred's hand situates itself firmly on his thigh, just a little shy of his crotch...

If Alfred thinks _now_ is the best time for sex, he has another thing coming. Matthew doesn't even care if it's a joke.

"Alfred, _go_ _home_. If you're not going to help me, I really don't feel like entertaining you."

His brother looks like he's going to laugh again, but he doesn't. Instead, the corner of his lip curls into one of his boy-scout smiles, eyes darkening, before digging his fingers into Matthew's thigh. "_Christ_, Mattie...I think that's the first time you've ever lipped off to me."

Matthew realizes then that Alfred's got nails. And they _hurt_.

Trying to pry his brother's hand off, his adrenaline gets the better of him as he begins to tremble. This isn't the Alfred he knows—his real brother hasn't physically hurt him since the Battle of 1812.

"Let _go_, Al. You're hurting me."

"_Aw_, poor Canada. As if it didn't hurt last night, babe. You know I love it when you holler..."

Matthew flinches back when Alfred leans in to kiss him, lips brushing before he can jerk his face out of reach. He's hit with a sudden wave of nausea and wonders, idly, if this just isn't some depraved hallucination.

Alfred pauses and releases his thigh. For a moment, Matthew hopes he's seen reason—but then Alfred's grabbed him by both arms and is hoisting him up onto his feet. It only takes him a second to then spin Matthew around, sit him up awkwardly on the table, and dig his fingers into Mattie's knees instead.

Mind reeling, he almost falls back when Alfred tugs him sharply forward, spreading his legs to accommodate Alfred's waist.

"A-Alfred, _what the he_—?"

Alfred slaps him.

_Hard_.

Black dots dance across his vision as his head throbs. It takes a moment for his ears to stop ringing and by then Alfred's already got his hand fisted in his hair, face buried in the crook of Matthew's neck. He's kissing him and nipping him as his other hand fiddles with the zipper on Matthews pants.

"Fifty years of mind-blowing sex _forgotten_? That really stings, Mattie."

"_Let go_! _Alfred_, _I_—"

Alfred bites him and Matthew chokes mid-sentence. Yanking on Alfred's hair with one hand, he tries to fend his brother's other hand off as it worms its way down the front of his boxers.

"Try not to ruin the mood, babe. Fending off that fucking pirate isn't exactly my favourite pastime, and the least you can do is show me a little appreciation, you know? I'm just saying..."

Matthew's never felt so sick in his entire life. When Alfred's cold hand closes around his member, he actually _sobs_. They've never... _Alfred_ would never...

He just _wouldn't_.

Alfred's never _once_ threatened to take him to bed against his will. Not even when he got that mad look in his eyes after Matthew told him, _no_, he really didn't think they were ready to be independent yet and, _yes_, he was in fact sleeping with Arthur. Heck, even when Alfred was as paranoid as all hell during the Cold War, he never dared to raise his hand against Mattie. Their blood had always been thicker than their fury or passion.

This simple isn't his brother.

"Let _go_ of me, you_ son of a—_"

"—Now _there's_ the Mattie I love," Alfred laughs, giving his manhood a sharp tug. Matthew is close to jerking a handful of his brother's hair out, but Alfred looks more or less excited by the effort. Heck, he's actually getting _off_ on it. "Seriously, though, I'm surprised you weren't hiding away in the attic. I'll have to thank whoever gave you that bump on the head, babe."

Seething, Matthew shuts him up with a blow to the face.

It actually floors his brother.

"_Wha_..._Owww_. You little _bitch._ I—"

And then he follows it up with a kick.

Alfred takes the hit to his jaw, head snapping back where he's sitting, sprawled, on the linoleum. He makes a vaguely pained noise as he covers his mouth with his hand, eyes screwed shut tight, and Matthew takes this golden opportunity to bolt for the door.

Or at least stumble as quickly as someone suffering from head trauma possibly _can_.

Not even bothering to find his keys, he gives Alfred one last look over his shoulder as he fixes the zipper on his pants before flinging open the door. He's got maybe a _minute_ for a head start, but that's all he really needs to get to his neighbour and call someone—_anyone_, perhaps even the police. Alfred's always laughed at his RCMP and CSIS, but even America can't deny that his people can beat the enemy senseless when the time calls for it.

Taking a step outside into the cold, crisp air though, his mind draws up a complete blank when he runs smack dab into Australia.

His brother looks about as dumbfounded as he is.

"T-Thomas?" he sputters, because it isn't often that the man wanders this far north. There's nothing wrong with their relationship, of course, but it'd be an understatement to say Thomas hated the snow. "I-I...I need your help."

"...Wait. You're not mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be—?"

He's cut off by the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen, torn between dragging Thomas into the house to help him manhandle Alfred, or simply darting across the lawn. He's not exactly in peak condition to go toe to toe with the superpower on his own, but Thomas looks about as white as a sheet, and he really doesn't want to drag him into this little war.

"Actually...I'm here on the behalf of England, mate. I'm sorry... This might sting a little."

"...Why would you be sorry?"

Australia reaches into the breast pocket of his spring coat and pulls out a feathered dart. Matthew recognizes the sedative only because Thomas brought a couple with him during the war and showed him how to blow them out of a pipe whenever they could catch a break. Like Matthew, both Thomas and his accomplishments had always belonged to England. Despite their independence as nations, they were connected through the commonwealth...

It's the only reason Matthew doesn't scream when Thomas jabs him in the throat.

**A/N:** Chapter two's a little late—I apologize. I'm also working on a Tanz der Vampire fic, so I've been trying to balance my time effectively.

Next chapter, you'll get to see what's happening with some of the countries in the other world. Additionally, the other Matthew wakes up. Yeehaw...

PS: By the way, thanks for all the beautiful reviews! I'm glad you guys seem to like the story so far. ;D

PPS: I don't speak Italian or French (or _anything_, really, besides English), so please don't hesitate to correct me if you see an error.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I apologize for the incredible delay. This chapter was originally twice as long, but I eventually thought it would be for the best if I posted the other half as part of chapter four. Also, thank you for wonderful reviews! If I make any grammar mistakes, please feel free to tell me—I've read this over so many times, I still might've missed something...*bows head*

Title: The Devil's Joke – chapter 3

Rating: Nc-17 (overall)

Characters: Canada, America, England, France, Germany, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.

Translations: See bottom the of the page

Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)

**Warnings:** This story follows both the regular, light-hearted _hetalia!universe_ as well as the dark _alternate universe_ it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, regular sex, and a bit of language... It's a psychological twist, darlings. My sincerest apologies.

Disclaimer: The rightful owner would _never_, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...

_Summary:__ Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they've ever craved before._

_**~*~Alfred F. Jones~*~**_

He's never had a heart attack before (despite what the others might say about the amount of fat he consumes in a day), but he figures it must feel a hell of a lot like this. At the sight of his brother lying prone on the floor, surrounded by glass and an alarmingly _large_ metal frame, his chest immediately constricts and his inner ear conveniently forgets to tell his brain that the ground he's standing on is still level. But other than the sudden wave of vertigo and overwhelming _need_ to find somewhere to sit, he figures he's doing pretty swell...

Because he's a _hero_, goddamnit.

Italy has a momentary freak-out of his own, waving his hands frantically as he spits out something vaguely frightening in his native language, though he's faster than Alfred on the uptake as is evident in the way he's the first one to move before Alfred can figure out what the heck is going on.

Giving his head a good shake, he follows the Italian across the room.

"_Dio_..." the Italian mutters as he squats down beside the comatose nation. He gives the frame a strange look but says nothing of it as he leans over to brush the hair from Matthew's face. "Wake up, _per favore_..."

Crouching down beside him, Alfred tries to slither his hands under his brother's body, a hefty task considering the amount of glass he's lying on. How the hell any of this could've happened is _far _beyond the boundaries of his imagination, so much so, in fact, that he's having a little trouble remembering how to use his hands. "See if you can roll him over, Feli."

Feliciano doesn't question him, merely tugs his leather gloves taut over his fingers before sliding his hands under Matthew's torso. With a little push, he's able to turn Mattie over into the cradle of Alfred's arms and off the bloody litter of glass.

It takes him a moment to adjust to the sudden weight, but Alfred is able to heft himself up onto his feet before carrying him across the hall to his office, managing, somehow, not to slam his brother's head into the doorframe along the way. Pausing only long enough to wonder where he put his keys, he figures '_what the hell_' and opens the door with a solid, ass-whooping kick instead.

—Dangerously close to having a high cholesterol he might _be_, but he'd like to see Arthur do _that_ on his piddly diet of burnt scones and tea...

Considering, though, that his willowy, hockey-fanatic of a brother is generallysupposed to be made up of lean muscle and sturdy bone, Alfred is at an absolute loss when his arms aren't aching by the time he deposits the man on his office couch. The goddamn kid's so light, it's scary—Lord knows, Mattie can throw his weight around when he wants to. Just give him a stick and put him somewhere out on the ice, and _viola_! It's the perfect recipe for friendly violence...

Dimly, though, he realizes he's let his mind wander in lieu of dealing with his brother. It's probably why he doesn't understand a word of what Italy is shouting at him from across the hall, dialect bedamned, as he tries to figure out what he's supposed to do _now_.

As sad as he is to admit it, he just doesn't _do_ stress.

Taking a moment to lean down and brush the glass off his brother's chest, Alfred presses his fingers gently against the ring of bruises around his neck to check for a pulse. As soon as feels the tell-tale flutter of life and the ghost of a breath against his wrist, he realizes, dimly, that he himself needs to remember to breathe. Matthew is alive despite the state he's in, and that's all Alfred can really hope for at the moment.

But that still begged the question:

What was happening in Canada?

"—_nein. Ich weiß nicht_. _Aber wenn_—_**fratello**_, give him back the phone! ..._Now_ is not the time, _per favore_..."

America blinks in surprise, glancing up at Feliciano as he switches from spewing German to Italian into his cell phone. He would find the sight of the flustered Italian amusing if not for the disparaging state his brother was in.

"—Yes? Thank you, Ludwig."

"What's up?"

Snapping the phone shut, Feliciano pockets it before closing the office door quietly and giving Alfred a worried look. "Germany is going to call your brother's Prime Minister, but he says no one has been notified of an attack on Canada yet... He sent Romano to find Arthur."

Alfred nods solemnly in agreement. Arthur might've been something of a nut (_seriously_, there was no such thing as magic—ghosts and aliens, _sure_, but they pretty much filled the quota for weirdness in the world, no need to add _unicorns_ to the mix...), but he couldn't deny the fact that the man knew his first aid. After all, he and Francis had centuries of beating the living daylights out of each other to perfect their skills.

Picking flecks of glass off his brother's shirt (where was his suit, anyway?), Alfred watches as the tiny nicks and scratches on Matthew's face began to fade. Given enough time, (and granted that his country wasn't currently experiencing a nuclear winter) he'd be as good as new.

"What did Romano have to say?" he asks, just to give his mind a chance to wander.

Glancing at the younger Italian, he notices the faint blush Feliciano tries to hide behind his hand as he waves it side-to-side dismissively. "He...Well, he said, _'Ma che cazzo'_—but it's rather vulgar, so... He _is_ sorry about your brother, though."

"That Romano...he's quite the firecracker, isn't he?"

"His heart is in the right place," Feliciano murmurs quietly. Sitting against the armrest of the couch, Alfred is genuinely surprised when the Italian folds his typically animated hands over his lap. "But never mind him... That _specchio_ was a curious thing, no?"

"Say what?"

"_Mi dispiace_. I mean _'mirror_'."

"No kidding. I'm not sure how it fell on him—heck, I haven't got a clue what it was _doing_ in there. Nice frame though. Reminds me a little of Russia. I'll have to thank him..."

"_No_!" Feliciano interjects, forcing a laugh. It's pretty much the default tactic anyone employs when trying to diffuse his temper. "That's not what I meant."

"Uh...okay?"

"It's the glass," the Italian elaborates, looking nervous, the same expression he usually adopts when someone other than Germany is genuinely listening to him. Alfred figures it's probably because he isn't accustomed to being taken serious for more than a minute. "He was lying on it, you understand?"

"Yee_eaaah_... No, actually."

"Oh. Well. He was _on_ the glass, _s__ì_? The glass was not on _him_..."

Oh...

What?

He supposes Feliciano is suggesting that Matthew had fallen on the mirror as opposed to the other way around. And at such an odd angle too...but he would've had to have been pressed right up against the wall to accomplish that, and Alfred doesn't see Matthew doing acrobats in his spare time. It just doesn't scream '_Canadian_'.

At least, to him it doesn't.

"You've managed to confuse me, Feli. Not something I'm proud to admit, but there you have it."

He doesn't mean to shoot Feliciano down, _honestly_, but the disheartened look the Italian gives him tells him otherwise. Good lord, it's as though he's gone and killed somebody's puppy...

Alfred realizes most nations disregard Feli's opinion solely on the fact that the nation is a little too giddy for his own good. He's not stupid, though he is most _certainly_ absentminded, and a person would have to be completely blind not to notice Feliciano's strong aversion to war, a fact that does him no favours when looking at his overall appeal as an ally on the battlefield. Or his overall appeal as _anything_, really, considering how many of the nations still walking around today had their heads stuck in the dark ages.

"Feli, I didn't mean—"

"_Matteo's_ awake," the younger man chirps. His eyes are a little sad, but Alfred can only tell because he's the fool who's gone and made him feel insignificant—something of a speciality as far as American stereotypes go. "Look."

True to his word, one glance at Matthew reveals the gentle flutter of his eyes, blinking slowly, as though waking from a long and troubling dream.

Leaning over Mattie's head, Alfred simply stares down at his brother. Matthew tries to focus on him in turn, though now he's wide-eyed and trembling, and Alfred _still_ hasn't got the slightest idea what he's supposed to do. The silence between them is deafening.

Not even Feliciano is willing to break it...

But then Matthew's eyes narrow suspiciously and the spell is broken.

"He...he _lied_ to me."

"Who did?"

Matthew doesn't answer.

Instead, he wraps his hands around Alfred's throat and proceeds to _squeeze_...

_**~*~Feliciano Vargas~*~**_

Violence has never been his specialty. Guns, explosives, the martial arts—in all honesty, he'd much rather waste his time out in the sun, swimming, or painting, or simply enjoying the warmth. Nothing good has ever come of war, and he expects nothing good ever _will_. It's simply the measure by which the powers-that-be determine a nation's worth.

_His_ worth.

Which he supposes amounts to pretty much nothing...

All the same, he knows how to diffuse a situation before it has the chance to escalate into something beyond his control. Having been a spoil of war (and having had to live with Romano since their unification), experience has taught him that much at least.

"_Matteo, per favore_—you're killing your brother!"

Sadly, though, he's never dealt with the Canadian before today.

"He lied..." Matthew murmurs, eyes locked firmly on America's reddening face. Feliciano can tell Alfred's genuinely struggling against his brother's hold by the way he scrambles frantically to pry Matthew's fingers off his throat, a look that's entirely new on the young superpower. "He _said_ it would be as though I had never known you at all...He _lied_."

Feliciano has never, in all his life, heard the mild-mannered man speak with such venom before. Italy had been on the receiving end of a few choice words during the war, and he was there to witness Ludwig's descent into madness as his _führer _tore him apart from the inside out, but the Canadian has always been seemingly above and beyond all the fury and madness one possess when the demands of one's people have become too much to bear. He can't even begin to imagine what would incite such fury in the benign nation.

Trying desperately to tear Matthew's hands away from the victim of his ire, he puts all his weight into leaning down on both of the man's arms as Alfred struggles to loosen his hold. "_Matteo_, he's not going to hurt you!"

And just like that, Matthew lets go.

Feliciano almost falls over, he's so surprised.

Thrown off by his sudden release, Alfred stumbles backwards into his office lamp as Matthew turns his eyes on Italy. For a moment, Feli wonders if Matthew wants to choke him too, he looks so _out_ of it—and then the man is reaching for him, and, _Dio_, Feli doesn't want to have a lovely little chain of bruises of his own, because, _really_, he's-just-alittlescared_andhedoesn'twanttodi_—

"Veneziano?"

...

It's been a while since anyone's called him that. The 'happyandfortunate' _Feliciano_ has always suited him better, he thinks, barring the few times Romano's managed to get a rise out of him.

"_Matteo_, you're—?"

"Did he hurt you?" he asks firmly. "Where is Germany?"

"O-on his way," he stammers. "And who? Alfred?" He's so relieved to see Matthew's return to reality that he has the guts to cluck his tongue against the back of his teeth. "_Never_—we haven't come to blows since the last war. What is wrong with you?"

"Way to be blunt," Alfred mutters behind him, but a cold look from his brother is enough to cut off anything else he'd like to say on the matter.

Sitting up, Matthew swings his legs over the edge of the couch before tugging Feliciano bodily down beside him. He stretches one arm over Feli's shoulder protectively and leans into him uncharacteristically close, almost as though waiting for Alfred to do something stupid...

Glancing at Alfred, Feli's fairly certain he's never seen the American look this wounded.

"I guess he wasn't lying," Matthew says eventually, eyes softening only marginally. "I mean, when was the last time we..._fought_?"

Alfred blinks, openly confused by the question. "You mean as in 'coming to blows'? Because the only time we ever do _that_ is on the ice, babe, and I'm usually the one getting a pounding... Who the hell touched you anyway? I've got my guns with me, if you know what I mean."

"No, I...I don't think I'll need them, thank you. This is..." Matthew lets his gaze wander across the room, taking in the plethora of rock 'n roll posters adorning the walls and the crayon rendition of Captain America framed on Alfred's desk by somebody's kid. "This isn't _your_ office, is it?"

"Uh. Yeah, actually, it is...Francis doesn't like the idea of me drilling too many holes in the walls, so I don't have that painting up that you gave me last Christmas. It's in DC. I'm..._sorry_, I guess? Is that what this is all about?"

"You apologized."

"...Weird, I know."

Matthew _laughs_.

"Mattie..."

"_Y-you_—" He's laughing so hard, in fact, that the way he's clutching Feliciano's shoulders is starting to hurt a little. "You've_ never_ apologized...Dear _God_, it's like I'm in a whole other universe."

"Maybe you are. Tony's told me he doesn't actually recognize any of our galaxies."

"_Tony_?" Matthew asks incredulously, though he sounds fonder than he did twenty seconds ago when he thought it would be a swell idea to strangle Alfred. "He's still alive? I thought you killed him."

Alfred blinks.

Then laughs. Weakly.

"That's..._funny_, Matt. And maybe a little eerie."

"Believe me, this whole..._experience_ is a little eerie. Or maybe that's not a strong enough word for it. I don't know. I'm just..." Taking a deep breath, Matthew glances at Feliciano and offers him a small smile. Releasing Feli's shoulders, he takes the Italian's gloved hands into his own and gives them a fond squeeze. "..._relieved_, I guess. I'm also glad you're well, Ven."

"_Grazie_," he says uncertainly. He doesn't see Matthew nearly half as much as anyone else does, but even _he_ can tell something's up with the northern nation. "You're...a little worse for wear, no?"

"Yes," Matthew murmurs absently, but then his thumb rubs Feliciano's knuckle the wrong way and the Italian begins to panic. "_Oh_...I never would've expected—"

Feliciano tugs his hands back sharply and takes this opportunity to put a little distance between them as he rises to his feet. "_Mi dispiace_,_ Matteo_, but I have to leave. I left my things in the—"

"Please don't!" Matthew sputters, catching Italy by his sleeve before he can make his escape. "Please, just...stay with me a little longer."

"_Matteo_—"

"At least until Beilschmidt gets here."

"Prussia?" he asks, because Gilbert isn't here today, and Ludwig has only ever been mistakenly called Beilschmidt when Gilbert's kingdom was first dissolved. To be honest, Feliciano isn't entirely sure Ludwig even _has_ a surname.

"Ludwig," Canada clarifies, tugging on his sleeve until Feliciano eventually bends to his will and takes up his old seat again. "Thank you..."

"No problem," he replies, though he is careful to keep his hands to himself. He can't believe how careless he'd been...

Glancing up at America, he realizes that the generally boisterous nation hasn't said a thing during their little exchange. For once, he's completely quiet, leaning against the wall with hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his bomber jacket, as though he's trying to figure out his next plan of action. It isn't the first time Alfred's gotten that look about him.

Even so, it's hard to tell what the man's thinking.

"What happened?" Feli asks, because now, at least, the question seems appropriate.

Matthew looks at him carefully, mapping his face with his eyes, the same way Ludwig sometimes does when he asks Feliciano if he's truly happy.

"_Matte_—"

"It's not important," he says. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

"But—"

Matthew smiles then and it cuts him short. Not the smile, though, but the glint of madness in his eyes. It's reminds Italy too much of World War II, and of Germany when his mind was split between the men fighting in the trenches and the ones burning in the furnaces.

Like a man torn between two worlds.

He opens his mouth to persist but he really has nothing to say. Feliciano was never any good with words. He could smile and sing and move sinuously as though in dance, but his thoughts and feelings were best expressed only to himself, inside his mind, free from persecution and the pain of surrendering to anyone that disagreed.

Some days, he wished he wasn't so weak.

Like now, as he began to realize not all was as it appeared...

The Matthew Williams sitting beside him now was not the _Matteo_ of yesterday.

A/N: Again, I apologize for the delay. On the upside, chapter 4 is almost finished. Heh...

Translations:

~_"—nein. Ich weiß nicht. Aber wenn—__**fratello**__"_ – "—no. I don't know. But if—brother!" (I imagine, having been with Ludwig as many years as he already has, Feliciano _must_ have learned some German by now (no matter how bad he might be at it).)

~_ Per favore_ – please

~_"Ma che cazzo"_ – the Italian equivalent of 'what the f***', though '_cazzo_' actually means c***

~ _Mi dispiace_ – I'm sorry.

~ _Specchio_ – mirror


End file.
